


Year Eleven

by disparity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9847334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disparity/pseuds/disparity
Summary: After ten years of marriage, Draco’s wife has left him. For a cat.He supposes he can’t blame Harry Potter for laughing at him. The whole thingisa bit ridiculous.





	

He’s been married for ten years, today. People are congratulating him for it, as if it’s some sort of accomplishment.

Being married to Astoria has always been rather simple. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that the entire thing was arranged by parents with little regard for their opinion on the matter--but then, perhaps this is just who they are. People who only develop fondness or affection when it’s the easy thing to do, when all the pieces are set for them.

He does not love Astoria the way a man loves his wife, and she’s rather open about the fact that she does not love him either. They have grown accustomed to one another, and they have learned to enjoy each other’s company. There are a lot of things Draco admires about his wife, and there isn’t much he resents. He accepts the way things are; it is simpler that way.

Draco’s never thought about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t married Astoria, or whether they ought to stop being married. Which is, perhaps, why it surprises him when she asks him over a pot of boiling water, “Do you think we ought to get divorced?”

They’re making their own supper, without magic--if someone had told Draco ten years ago that this would become a regular routine of his, he would not have believed it. Though his opinions of blood purity were in flux after the war, he could never have imagined himself preparing his own food. It is a shame to think that, were it not for Astoria, he might’ve never had the experience. He quite enjoys it.

“What for?” asks Draco, glancing at the recipe card. It’s neon pink, because Astoria wouldn’t be Astoria without her oddities, and scrawled at the top in neat letters are the words, ‘Mouse Pasta.’

Astoria sighs. “I don’t know. Hand me that box, will you?”

He does so, only to promptly forget the correct amount of salt for the sauce. He squints at the card again.

“I just think…” She stops, upends the box of crunchy bowties into the pot, and restarts, “I know we’re not like other people, Draco.”

“That’s something of an understatement.”

He expects a nudge or a playful glare, but when he looks down, he sees worry in Astoria’s eyes. “Have you ever  _ really _ thought about how odd we are?” she asks. “We never have sex. Even unhappy people have sex.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to have sex?”

“Not with you,” she says, stirring the pasta idly.

“Is there someone else you want to have sex with?” He gets the feeling the idea should bother him, but it doesn’t. He’d prefer that his parents not learn of it; they wouldn’t understand. In fact, he’s not sure he does, either.

“No,” she says on a heavy exhale. “But I think, sometimes,  _ would _ I want to? If I weren’t married anymore?”

Draco frowns. He sets his burner to warm, then reaches over to turn hers down because it seems she’s quite forgotten. Water’s splashing out of the pot now, violent and sizzling. He pulls her away from the stove before a drop can land on her skin. He turns the move into an embrace, and she hums contentedly in his arms.

“What’s brought this on?” he asks.

“Nothing in particular,” she mumbles into his shoulder.

“Astoria.”

She sighs a third time. “Do you see?” She pulls away to look him in the eyes, brow furrowed. “Ten years of marriage, and you’ve never called me anything but Astoria.”

“In my defense,” he says, “it  _ is _ your name.”

“Yes, but-” She purses her lips. “Other people, they call their spouses ‘darling’ or ‘love’ and we just call each other Draco and Astoria.”

Once Draco really starts thinking, it doesn’t take him long to figure it out. “Did you have tea with my mother?”

The look on her face is answer enough. Draco pulls her in, threading his fingers through her long, dark hair.

“My mother,” he says, fond but long-suffering, “is an intelligent, capable woman who promptly loses all sense when it comes to me and my perceived level of happiness. Should she for any reason believe that I do not have everything I could possibly want in life, she  _ will _ find someone to blame for it.” Astoria’s breathing eases as he continues to stroke her hair. Softly, he adds, “And if she’s really spending her time faffing over the significance of pet names, she clearly needs another hobby.”

Astoria giggles into him and says, “Oh, you’re awful. Your poor mother.”

“My  _ poor _ mother?” Draco repeats. He releases his wife to tend to the bubbling sauce, and she dips her spoon back into the pasta. “We are speaking of the same woman who kindly offered to smother your cat when she figured out it wasn’t a kneazle?”

“I’d forgotten about Timothy!” she exclaims. Fondness overtakes her expression--and she really is beautiful like this, Draco thinks, hair loose and spilling over a pink apron. Warm and smiling. Familiar. Why should he ever want to leave her? Much less go through the drudgery of finding someone else, or not finding anyone at all.

The remainder of the hour is spent sharing anecdotes of Timothy the Cat, but Draco can still hear the question,  _ ‘Do you think we ought to get divorced?’ _ over and over in his mind, caught on a loop.

They sit and eat their anniversary dinner alone in their little house in the hills, as they’ve done for the better part of the past ten years.

This is the last one.

***

Draco doesn’t know why he goes into the pet shop on his lunch break. He doesn’t know why he spends the entire hour looking at kittens. He doesn’t know why he returns after work and buys one, or why puts a bow on the box and sets it on the coffee table, except that he thinks Astoria will like it.

He’s never been the romantic sort, and neither he nor his wife care much for gift-giving or material possessions. It’s odd, he thinks, when they’ve both come from wealth and privilege--but somewhere in ten years of marriage, they’ve become minimalists quite by accident. They run an efficient household with little excess, even for the sake of sentiment.

On their first anniversary, Draco made the mistake of presenting his wife with a bouquet of roses. It was thoroughly embarrassing on both ends, and he has not attempted such a gesture since.

_ So why in Merlin’s name are you doing it now? _ he asks himself. There’s no answer.

When Astoria floos in, he’s sitting at the edge of the sofa, eying the box warily. It’s been emitting a series of plaintive mews for the last ten minutes, and Draco has spent each one of them debating the merits of a properly wrapped package against a cross kitten. Relief settles over him at last.

“Astoria,” he greets her, standing from the sofa. It occurs to him that he has not thought of anything to say, so he gestures to the box. “I’ve a gift for you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I can see that.” Despite her forced skepticism, something like wonder overtakes her expression as she examines the box. The kitten cries from inside. “Is that…?”

“Happy anniversary,” he says, belatedly.

She sinks to her knees in front of the coffee table, robes pooling around her. They’ll wrinkle, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her eyes are affixed to the box as she gently pulls it open.

Joy transforms her face, softens the angles and makes her look impossibly young. She lifts the kitten out of the box and holds it to her bosom, breathing a quiet, “Hello there.” By way of response, it bats a stray piece of hair with its tiny paw. Draco can hear her breath hitch, can feel the pleased smile on his own face.

When her eyes leave the kitten to meet Draco’s, she suddenly looks sad. “Oh,” she breathes.

“What is it?” he asks, concerned by the shift.

“Our tenth anniversary was last week.”

“Nothing gets by you.” The joke falls flat, and Draco chuckles nervously. “Sorry. It’s a bit late, but I thought you might like another cat. I know how much you cared for Timothy-”

“I did,” she whispers. She looks back at the kitten, a ghost of her smile returning. “ _ Merlin,  _ Draco. This is what it feels like.”

He shakes his head uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“ _ Love _ . It’s been so long since I-” The kitten begins to purr. Astoria gazes at it fondly, stroking its fur.

She doesn’t finish; she doesn’t need to. At once Draco understands quite a bit more than he thought he did.

There’s something thick in his throat. It takes him several moments to swallow and say, “We’re getting divorced, aren’t we?”

She looks up at him with a sad smile. “I believe we are.” The kitten swats at her hair again, and in return, she pokes its paw. She looks impossibly happy, even as she says, “I’ll gather my things, shall I?”

“Nonsense.” That grabs her attention again, but only for a moment. “Stay as long as you like. It’s your home, too.”

“Thank you, Draco.”

Later that night, when they’ve finished getting ready for bed, Astoria waves and switches out the light.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Divorced people don’t sleep in the same bed, Draco.”

He watches her silhouette disappear, hears her pad down the hall to the guest bedroom. In the dark, alone, it occurs to him that this whole affair is going to be unnecessarily difficult.

***

Draco hasn’t been sleeping. It would be absurdly romantic to say he misses having someone beside him, so he doesn’t say it. He brews a sleep aid or two, which of course mucks up his schedule thoroughly.

An Unspeakable rarely keeps regular hours, so it’s no issue as far as work goes, but it does leave him awake at odd hours. Typically he spends them reading on the sofa with the kitten curled up on his chest--although Violet’s getting bigger now, and she won’t fit there forever. Sometimes he falls asleep like that, listening to her breathe.

Other times he stays awake until his eyes burn, staring at pages he doesn’t comprehend. And then one time--just one--he goes to Hogsmeade.

He can’t say why he’s doing it, except that he thinks he ought to be depressed and isn’t, and alcohol will fix that right up. He has a habit of getting philosophical and melancholy when he drinks to excess, which is why he often limits himself to a single glass of wine.

He chooses the Hog’s Head because it’s the only seedy tavern he knows. He doesn’t fancy going someplace nice, because the nice places have more people, and he’s never liked crowds much. He’d go to a Muggle place if he knew of any. As it is, the Hog’s Head is the only place he can think of that might not be full to the brim this time of night.

It’s been years since Draco ordered a drink at a tavern, and he’s a little clumsy at the counter. But he manages to slink off to a corner table with his ale. If anything in the world is going to make him feel sad about his divorce, it’s this shack and this swill. He’d prefer drowning in self-pity to this hazy, sleepless confusion.

Draco knows that people go to the Hog’s Head because they  _ don’t _ want to be seen, and he understands that as such he probably shouldn’t be looking too closely, but it’s hardly his fault when he meets a pair of eyes staring at him from across the room. The face is covered by shadows and a black hood, but the eyes gleam in the firelight.

He orders another drink, and another, and still he sees the eyes on him every so often. He’s half a mind to go over there and demand to know exactly what they’re staring at, but it turns out he doesn’t have to. The stranger is approaching him.

Draco’s not  _ drunk _ , per se, but he’s a little less graceful than usual and slightly concerned for his aim. Nevertheless he slides his wand into his hand, ready to defend against trouble, should it present itself.

But the stranger merely slides into the booth across from him with a grunt and says, “I’d ask if it’s alright for me to sit here, but I’m pretty sure that I’m too drunk to care at this point.”

The stranger’s words aren’t slurred--and in fact, his voice sounds rather nice and vaguely familiar. Draco raises an eyebrow. “And yet you’re apologizing.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” The man gestures toward him. “I thought I was hitting on you. Although it has a been awhile, so I admit I’m probably not doing it very well.”

Draco coughs and decides to ignore the insignificant details of being hit on by a bloke. “Breakup?” he asks instead.

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, mate.” Draco’s made an unintentional joke, it seems, as this causes the man to laugh for quite some time. After it becomes apparent that he’s not going to explain himself, Draco says, “It’s been awhile for me too, but I believe you may be overdoing it. Just a bit.”

“Sorry. I just- It’s funny, because you wouldn’t call me that. If you, well.” The stranger pulls back his hood and says, “Sorry.”

Draco has the distinct feeling that he should not be surprised to run into Harry Potter of all people on his first recreational night out in several months, at least. It seems there is no end to coincidences when it comes to the two of them.

“So, er…” Harry reaches back to muss up his hair. “Is it a breakup for you too, then?”

He stares at Harry for a long moment before deciding, “I need another drink.”

“On me,” says Harry, scrambling to his feet. “What’ll you have?”

“Er.” Draco blinks. “Something rather strong, I think.”

Harry grins, says, “Brilliant,” and sidles up to the bar with even less coordination than usual.

It’s all a bit bizarre, but he’s learned to expect nothing less from Harry Potter. They’ve both got a few drinks in them, and the war’s been over for more than a decade. Their rivalry’s a thing of the past. The likelihood of this ending in bloodshed isn’t worth noting.

“There we are,” says Harry, placing a glass in front of him.

“It’s smoking.”

He shrugs. “Better drink it quickly, then.”

Draco is quite aware that this may not be the best of ideas, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it anyway. Maybe because it’s Potter, and he’s not going to let Potter think he’s afraid of a strange drink that-

_ Fuck. _ He barely manages to swallow the thing and regrets it the moment he does. His only comfort is that Harry seems to be in as much pain as he is. He feels fire everywhere and- oh. Oh, no, that isn’t so bad. It’s rather nice, actually.

“So,” says Harry, and Draco vaguely wonders how long he’s been staring off into space like a simpleton, “you didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ll likely regret asking this, but nevertheless: what was your question?”

“Are you single?”

Draco thinks on it. “In some sense, I suppose.” He cants his head. “My wife is leaving me.”

“Oh.” Harry’s teasing expression crumples. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Mhmm. For a cat.”

“Er… What?”

“My wife is leaving me for a cat,” Draco repeats. Only when Harry starts laughing does he realize how ridiculous all of this is, and then sure enough, he’s laughing too.

Laughing over his divorce in the Hog’s Head with Harry Potter. Draco briefly reflects that this is quite the opposite of what he planned on doing with his night.

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re fucking with me,” says Harry, still laughing.

“I’m not,” Draco insists. “I got her a cat for our anniversary, and she says she loves the cat more than me, and now we’re getting divorced.”

“That…” Harry stops, pushing up the bridge of his glasses. “That’s awful. I can’t even… I mean, I thought mine was bad, but I can’t top that.”

“Finally admitting I’m superior to you, then?”

There’s a moment where Harry looks like he can’t quite decide whether to take that as a joke. Then he grins and says, “Where fantastically bad breakups are concerned? I rather think you are.”

Draco scoffs. “Of course I am. Just for fun, though, let’s hear yours. Things gone sour with Weasley?”

Harry gives him a strange looks and says, “Ginny and I ended things four years ago.”

“Ah.” Draco can feel a flush creeping up his neck. “Well, I only skim the paper.”

“You’d have to be living under a rock not to see those headlines,” says Harry, ducking his head in embarrassment.

“It was Romania, actually.”

“Oh? Something for the, er… Department of Mysteries, right?”

Draco smirks. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

Harry catches on. “It’s a mystery?”

“Mhmm.”

“Use that joke often, do you?”

“No,” says Draco, shrugging. “I rarely have the audience. Astoria’s not fond of puns.”

Harry’s quiet for a minute, chewing on his lip before he says, “I like puns.”

“Yeah?” Draco tries to eye him shrewdly, but it doesn’t work very well. In fact, he probably looks ridiculous and should stop immediately.

“Yeah,” says Harry.

He’s not really sure when they got so close, but what he  _ does _ know is that Harry Potter has very green eyes and smells sort of nice. It’s not the first time he’s thought about kissing Harry Potter, even if he’s fairly certain he’s never thought about kissing any other blokes. He’s always been drawn to Harry in a strange sort of way--maybe that’s why they have these happenstance meetings, against all odds.

Harry’s voice is low and husky when he says, “Do you want to come back to mine?”

There’s a fair difference between kissing Harry Potter and shagging Harry Potter, but Draco gets the feeling he’s going to end up doing both.

***

It’s been years since Draco woke up with a hangover. Truth be told, he doesn’t like drinking much, which is probably for the better at his age. It explains why he’s a bit confused by the overwhelming sensation when he comes to with what is almost definitely a whimper.

He searches the bedside table blindly, coming across all sorts of odd objects that probably shouldn’t be there, before he realizes his watch is still on his wrist. Makes sense he’d forget to take it off when he’s plastered. Not as if it matters, since his eyes hurt too much too look at it regardless.

Draco kicks off the sheets and makes for the loo, only to run into the wall much sooner than he ought to. He feels around, daring to open his eyes a little. It still takes a moment to realize he’s not in his room. Or even his house.

“Draco?”

He turns toward the voice--Harry’s voice. Brilliant.

“Hangover remedy,” he says, offering a vial to Draco.

He downs it eagerly, and the world comes into focus. It’s so abrupt that it sends him stumbling; Harry catches him before he careens into the desk.

He blinks, and Harry’s bright green eyes are still on his, callused hand around his bare waist. The hand drops abruptly, and Harry takes a step back. He runs a hand through his rumpled hair and asks, “Alright?”

Draco takes stock of himself and his surroundings. It’s a decently-sized room, cluttered with posters and an assortment of knick knacks that make it look a bit smaller. That’s about all Draco notices because it turns out that he is entirely naked. He’s not quite sure how that escaped his notice until this point.

“Your clothes are there,” says Harry, pointing at a stack of clothing on the desk. It looks as though someone has attempted to fold it and failed miserably. “Loo’s through there if you want a shower before… well, if you want a shower.”

“Yes, thank you.” Draco grabs his clothes and scurries in the indicated direction, promptly locking the door behind him.

He has an intense debate over whether he should linger in the shower and hope that Harry leaves for work or vacate the premises as soon as possible. In the end, his manners have him showered quickly and ready for a polite goodbye on the way out the door. Perhaps once he’s out of this place--which is so thoroughly  _ Harry _ in every way--he’ll be able to breathe, and more importantly, sort all this out.

Harry awaits him in the kitchen, where he’s offered tea and bland toast. Draco does his very best to pretend that there is nothing awkward about this situation, but ironically, it only makes him more aware of the awkwardness that is so clearly present.

“Thank you for letting me stay.” For a moment he almost wishes his mother were here to see how primly he says it. She never has appreciated his predisposition for sarcasm, even though he’s fairly certain she gave it to him in the first place.

Harry clearly did not pay attention in his own etiquette lessons, because his response is to sigh and say, “Look, it doesn’t have to mean anything, alright? It doesn’t have to change anything.”

Draco frowns. “But it already has,” he murmurs. “I’ve never…”

When he looks up, he finds Harry grinning sheepishly. “Yeah, you mentioned that. A few times.” He shrugs. “For what it’s worth, you, er… It didn’t show.”

“Is that some roundabout way of calling me a mean cocksucker?” asks Draco, and well. There go his manners. Mother would be disappointed.

Oh. What  _ would _ Mother think of him seeing Harry Potter? Now he wants to know.

Harry, for his part, chokes on his toast. Whether he’s going red from lack of air or embarrassment is anyone’s guess, but Draco decides not to comment either way.

Once Harry can breathe again, he says, “So… we’re talking about this, then?”

“Pegged me for a runner?” Draco guesses.

“Sort of.”

“I considered it,” he admits. “This is a bit awkward.”

Harry looks thoughtful. Or perhaps he’s choking again. “You’re very frank,” he comments, as though it is worth remarking on.

“Time changes people, Harry.”

“That’s it?”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Would you rather rehash the past?”

“It doesn’t have to be all or nothing,” says Harry, shrugging. “I think a bit of closure might be nice.”

“As long as you’re not planning some inane apology.” From the change in expression on Harry’s face, Draco can tell that’s exactly what he meant to do. He sighs. “That’s war, Harry--everyone’s sorry in the end.”

“But when I-” He reaches toward Draco’s chest. His shirt covers the scars, but they both know what’s there. “That night. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Draco catches his hand in the air, threading their fingers together. “Neither of us did,” he says. “We were pieces in someone else’s game. Like wizard’s chess--an illusion of chaos determined by a precise intersection of rows and columns.”

Harry just stares at him for a moment. His eyes really are excessively green, and his hair is ridiculous. Draco can’t decide what exactly he smells like, but it’s wonderful, and it may or may not be making him a bit dizzy.

“Were you always this clever and beautiful?” Harry asks. Rhetorically, of course. “Even I don’t know how I resisted you for so long.”

“Well,” Draco offers, “I hate to say it, but I may have been a bit of a prick.”

Harry huffs softly; his breath is warm on Draco’s skin. How is it that they keep getting so close to one another? Draco’s fairly certain he’s not trying to do it, although he will note that he takes no objection.

“Do you really want to do this?” whispers Harry.

“Kiss you, you mean?”

He shakes his head. “Be with me. Do you… do you think we can make something out of this?”

“Well, I hope so. You do like puns.”

“I do,” says Harry, and it’s all he has time to say before Draco kisses him.

***

Draco doesn’t sleep alone anymore. It seems Astoria’s new default state of being is smug. She’s moved to London with her cat and keeps an illegal greenhouse in her lavatory.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy know precisely what they need to know, which is nothing.

It’ll be an interesting Christmas.


End file.
